


Fires Gone Out

by nunyabizniz



Category: The King (2019)
Genre: Character Death, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 13:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21410770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nunyabizniz/pseuds/nunyabizniz
Summary: At a different time in his life he’d dreamt of this castle. Back when he’d been the wayward prince Hal.Set shortly after the events of The King cuz I've watched it like three times and I loved it. Just a moody internal monologue by Henry V about his life before and after becoming king.
Relationships: Catherine of Valois/Henry V, Sir John Falstaff & Prince Hal
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	Fires Gone Out

**Author's Note:**

> I have never read the Shakespeare play and I probably won't so sorry if this is wrong.

Henry sat upright in his bed, the fire in the hearth had gone out some time ago and the cold was starting to creep in. To his left his wife lay sound asleep with her back facing him. She was as impassive in her rest as she was by day. Perfectly still, perfectly silver, illuminated by the moonlight. He wondered if it would be the proper thing to draw the blankets over her and protect her from the chill he could already feel setting in. Or would it be better to simply rebuild the fire? Or would it be better to freeze?

At a different time in his life he’d dreamt of this castle. Back when he’d been the wayward prince Hal he’d dreamt of dragging Falstaff through the halls, showing him where he’d slept as a boy, where he’d trained, where he’d played. Taking the man on a tour of the life he’d thrown away. He’d imagined stumbling through the corridors red faced and boorish, laughing and fooling about as if they were in the tavern’s of Eastcheap and not the jewel of England. 

But this room, the king’s room, he’d thought about in particular detail. He’d imagined the sound of the great oak doors shutting behind him, familiar but in a new way for now he would be shut in rather than out. He could almost hear Sir John jeering at the decorations on the wall and the gold embellishments on the bed frame. Could almost feel the weight of a hand on his shoulder, moving up to grasp the back of his neck, then his cheek. In his mind the room was always warm, almost overwhelmingly so, much like his friend, so warm it was nearly suffocating.

He shook himself. It hadn’t done any good to imagine what could never be back then, it certainly wouldn’t now. He couldn’t say how long he had been sitting like this, staring at the empty hearth with the blank guarded eyes he wore in court. He was bare chested and the skin under his nails had started to turn slightly blue, he imagined his lips looked a similar shade. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. 

Were Falstaff here he would scold him thoroughly and likely joke about how royal lads never knew how to build their own fires. Then his friend would warm him, offer him ale or wine or  
whatever else was nearby and with impossibly warm hands pull him out of his frozen stupor. But his friend was not here, he was in a field in France growing colder with the dirt that surrounded him.

And Henry was here, in this plush bed with a warm body beside him, turning blue. Catherine stirred in her sleep and drew the covers over her shoulders so all that was visible was her flowing silver hair, disheveled for once. He lifted the covers off of his legs and swung them over the edge of the bed. The stone floor was cool under his bare feet and it sent a chill up his spine. From the bed the hearth looked like a cavernous gaping hole that threatened to swallow him up if he got to close. He could practically hear his father chastising him for the boyish fears.

He placed two logs on the scorched stone and crouched to light them. One, two, three strikes and a spark caught. A tiny flame burst forward and spread along the length of the log, he flipped it to catch the second log and stared almost transfixed. The flame licked at the second log but would not spread, must be damp. 

The wavering orange light made the room appear distorted, the bedframe seemed to warp and shift fluidly with the shadows. The paintings on the wall stared gauntly at him, one day he would remove them, and every other remanent of his father that made him feel like an intruder in his own kingdom. For now though they watched with eyes vacant and scornful as the men in his court. Their gaze followed him across the room back to bed.

Catherine had drawn her arm above the covers and lay on her back. Maybe he’d woken her while lighting the fire but she was still as before. He settled lightly, careful not to stir her, and leaned against the headboard. The gold embellishments decorating the wood felt cold pressed against his bare back. The halls were so quiet this time of night he could hear a guard stifle a cough from the other end of the castle. 

Back in Eastcheap his room had been bare, and loud, and almost never empty. Even now with his wife beside him Henry could feel the emptiness of the room pressing up against him like a blade against skin. 

It was never quiet in Eastcheap, never clean, never empty, never solitary. There was always Beale, or some woman, or a group of drunkards that had stumbled home with him, and there was always Falstaff, always. What he would give to hear that gruff voice again, to patch up his wounds just once more. To feel someone alive and animate, even if the proof of that was in the blood soaking through his shirt. 

“I will require your undiminished loyalty from here till Megiddo.” He heard his own voice echo in his mind.

“You have that already.” Falstaff hadn’t hesitated a second. ”You’re a soft negotiator.” 

It was a marvel how casually Sir John told the truth, never filtered or altered, although often slightly slurred. He hadn’t appreciated it enough as Hal, he longed for it now as Henry. Or perhaps it wasn’t truth he longed for. Catherine gave him truth after all, she gave it readily almost eagerly in fact, just as boys give jabs while sparring. 

“You have that already.” Henry turned the words over in his head. And what do I have now?

Gradually the fire’s heat began to spread throughout the room, one thing he often found impractical was that his chambers were so large they could hardly be properly heated. He leaned his head back and looked out the slitted windows to a rainy windy night. He felt no real urge to sleep, he felt no real urge for anything anymore, but dutifully he resigned himself to rest under the ostentatiously decorated canopy. It would be fitful as ever, and he doubted he’d get more than an hours rest in all the time he’d lay there, but what else was there to do?

In the morning he would rise and Catherine would already be bathed and dressed and sitting in a circle with her handmaidens, when they saw him they would switch to English and her mood would dampen. He would meet with his council and listen to the archbishop’s droning. He would hear the many complaints of lords and emissaries. They would hear him. He would be honest and his men would hide their displeasure. They would heed his commands. He would be a good king, a devoted one. And somewhere in his chest even with the heavy cloak and furs and blazing hearth he would feel a chill set in that refused to go away.


End file.
